


Sunshine

by queenbellevue



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, I have a weird thing with characters getting drunk, I may have messed up count on the timeline somewhere, I only stopped writing bc I have zero clue how to end this sucker, POV Second Person, and eating pancakes, and pining, bc everyone else can keep their grubby mitts off my bbys, inspired by a reddit comment I read last night, is this story in the present tense? Past tense? Who knows, the only names here are clarke and lexa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-30 23:11:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3955477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenbellevue/pseuds/queenbellevue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke is like all your favorite stories rolled into one. You can read them over and over and over until you’ve memorized your favorite parts, but each time, you still find something new to love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, guys, wanna hear a joke?
> 
> Girl: Come over.  
> Boy: I'm coming over.  
> Girl: We should put the walkie talkies away, over.
> 
> BAHAHAHAHAHAH that shit is hilarious.

You first meet her in homeroom in 10th grade. It’s the 4th school you’ve attended in the span of two years, and by then, you’ve given up all attempts at trying to make friends. It’s not that you didn’t like other people, but you always ended up leaving, and you’ve never gotten close enough to anyone to keep in contact after you do. You didn’t think it’d be any different here, so you figured you might as well focus on your studies instead of trying to climb the social ladder. It didn’t matter, you’ve always preferred your own space anyway. Still, walking into a room full of other 16 year olds all busily chatting away in groups made you feel a strange sense of loneliness, that sense of being an outcast never got any easier, and it never went away.

Your eyes briefly scan the room, looking for any other possible misfits or awkward newcomers. That was, of course, when you saw her. You are not a poet or a writer, flowery prose is not your forte, but you truly mean it when you say she was like that one ray of sunshine on a miserable, cold, rainy day. Years later, you’ll look back on this very moment and laugh, because you never really stood a chance, did you? Anyhow, as how these things always go, the teacher assigned you to sit next to her.

You felt incredibly out of place next to her and her group of friends, like a clumsy smudge on an otherwise flawless painting. You never hoped that you’d even get to say a word to her, but luckily, she’s braver than you ever were.

“Hi, I’m Clarke,” she said within 30 seconds of you sitting down, extending her hand for you to shake. “What’s your name?”

You weren’t expecting it at all, but when your brain finally caught up to what’s happening, you manage to shake it like a normal human being (although you vaguely remember your hand being sweaty).

“I’m Lexa.”

“So, are you new here?”

You only nodded. Damnit, where were all your words when you needed them?

“What’s your next period?”

You search for your schedule somewhere in your bag and fish it out.

“English, and then Bio, I think.”

Her face falls a little, and seeing that, yours probably did too. “I have Maths and then Chem. I guess… I’ll see you when I see you?” She smiled hopefully.

“Of course,” you answer. You felt giddy at the thought of seeing her again, of her _wanting_ to see you again.

As it turned out, you only shared that homeroom class, first period, every day.

Classes were basically a cakewalk for you, even if you’re taking all AP and honors. It was kind of boring to be honest, but you still found yourself wanting to go to school every morning so you could see her for that first period. It very quickly became your favourite thing about that school, getting to sit and just talk to this blue-eyed wonder for 15 minutes every day. At first, you kept being afraid that you’d say something dumb and she’d just turn back to her friends, never to speak to you again. But as the days went by and you got closer and closer, you just didn’t care anymore, and she never stopped.

One day, as you’re rambling on about something irrelevant, she took out a pen and scribbled some numbers onto your hand, telling you to call her.

You did, of course. In fact, you texted back and forth so much during classes that one of your teachers actually confiscated your phone. It was the first and last time you’ve ever been disciplined in school.

Your conversations were everywhere. Calling and texting, those were givens, but your Facebook inbox was full of her messages, your Twitter mentions (you don’t even use Twitter), hell, you even Skyped. She’s especially active on Snapchat and Instagram, you not so much, but you had both those apps on your phone anyway, and there’s a special notification whenever she posted something. You’re not big on social media. You didn’t really like the idea of sharing your entire life online, but Clarke convinced you, and let’s be real, you were never going to deny her anything.

In the span of a few short months, you’ve become wholly confident that you could teach an entire class about Clarke-ology. You knew all her favorite things, all of her quirks, her annoyances, how to make her laugh when she's feeling down, every type of smile she had, you could’ve probably picked out her voice from a sea of people talking. You never seem to run out of things to say, and every morning, without fail, she would take your hand and write something on your palm.

_‘Is it bad that everyone who’s not you bores me?’_

_‘I have a dumb English exam today. I wish you were my English teacher, I’d never miss a class.’_

_‘If I could rearrange the alphabet, I think I’d put U and I together, what do you think?’_

 Whatever the message, you’d stupidly grin every time you looked at it throughout the day (an embarrassing number of times, you’re sure).

You begin to fall for her, because how could you not have. It’s halfway through the school year when you finally, FINALLY decide to ~~get your head out of your ass~~ ask Clarke out. To be perfectly fair, you’d never asked anyone out before. You had never wanted to. Deciding to do so was a pretty huge deal for you, and therefore, you were understandably nervous.

That night, you talk to her until your eyelids become heavy. You dream of blonde hair and blue eyes.

The next day, as soon as you sat down, she took out that familiar pen and wrote ‘ _How is it that we talked for 3 hours last night and yet I still want to keep talking?_ ’

You laughed. You felt the exact same way. Which is why, you reasoned, you didn’t ask her out that day. Asking her out would mean you’re no longer friends. You loved the dynamic you have with her, and you didn’t want that to change. You told yourself that you’d do it tomorrow, for sure. The truth is that you were afraid of rejection. You were afraid that she didn’t feel the same way, and then you’d lose her as a friend, too. 

Well, tomorrow never came. You kept chickening out at the last second, until it was too late. One morning, some guy asked her to be his date for prom, and she looked at you expectantly for a few seconds before turning back to the guy and accepting his offer.

Damn, you were so stupid. So incredibly _stupid_. Denser than a brick. She might as well have worn a bright, flashing neon sign saying she liked you in all capital letters. How did you miss it all?

After a few days of hosting your very own pity party, you picked yourself up and told yourself that you’d never make that mistake again.

Too bad for you, that one date at prom with that one guy turned into two, then three, which turned into her dating him for the remainder of high school.

You moved school before 11th grade ends, halfway across the world this time. Saying goodbye to Clarke felt like your heart getting ripped out, but you got through it eventually. Time heals all wounds.

* * *

 

Europe is definitely your favorite continent. You are in your element, here in England. You find yourself growing up. You gain some much needed self-confidence and get a taste of rejection, as well as failure. You are still the same girl you were back then, just a newer and better version of her. By the time college admission letters are sent, you’ve grown out of your shell considerably. You speak four languages, play multiple instruments, and have become a heavily sought after candidate by the Ivy Leagues back home in America. You guess that the girls here must’ve found that at least mildly attractive, because they flirted with you, danced with you, chased after you, but you’re never really interested.

There’s no substitute for sunshine.

You still talked to Clarke regularly, you’re still really good friends, and you tell yourself that everything worked out for the best whenever she mentioned her boyfriend. You always ignore that pang in your chest whenever she did.

You pick Georgetown, because maybe someday you might want to go into politics. It's great. The courses challenge you, the professors are all people you respect and look up to, people are smart, articulate and motivated. You love it here. The first college party you go to, however, was lame. Beer, people getting drunk, weed, nothing new.

The second college party - which you almost didn’t go to because you’re tired after finishing midterms, but your roommate dragged you there anyway - was somewhat better. It’s weirdly ironic that your roommate’s name is _literally_ Destiny.

You’re drinking some watered down beer when you see her. Your heart skips a beat. Time may heal all wounds, but it doesn't erase memories.

She’s still sunshine on a cold, wet, miserable day.

Everything comes flooding back, and you’re transported back in time to that day, when you _were_ going to tell Clarke how you felt, if only you weren’t beaten to the punch. Except now, you’re older, wiser, and most importantly, **_bolder_** than you could’ve ever hoped to be.

You walk up to her, and there’s a spring in your step.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

Her face lights up in recognition as she pulls you into a tight hug. Oh man, how you’ve missed this. How you’ve _missed_ her. You tell her as much.

She grins; she’s missed seeing you, too.

You end up ditching the rest of the party (your friends were too busy playing beerpong to notice your disappearance) for somewhere quieter to talk, and _that_ you do, in some stranger's backyard. It’s like riding a bicycle, or coming home after a long time away. You’ve had several rhetoric courses, so you’d like to think you’re ten times the conversationalist you were, but you still talk to Clarke as if you were that same awkward 16 year old.

The last few years were good, better than good. Europe was amazing to you. You’ve lived and you’ve learned. You’ve seen some beautiful things (none of them hold a candle to her). Sunrises in Paris, sunsets in Greece. You’ve been on top of mountains and even volcanoes, high enough that it felt like you could just reach up and touch the stars. You’ve been underwater and underground, exploring the Earth. You wished she could’ve been there with you to watch the shimmering Northern Lights in Iceland on a freezing January night, or dived alongside you in the bluest parts of the Mediterranean ocean (it reminded you of her eyes). You’re overwhelmed with the urge to share everything with her, so you do.

Clarke, in turn, does the same. She’s at Johns Hopkins, on track to go to medical school. Her mom must’ve been so proud that her daughter’s following in her footsteps. She still loved to draw, to paint, to capture everything and anything that mattered onto a blank canvas.

She’s still fascinated with the stars, still loved blueberry pancakes, still hated horror movies. Some things never change, but some things do.

Clarke’s more well-traveled now, having been a volunteer in several countries. She’s developed a taste for fine wine and French pastries. And yes, she’s still every bit as drop dead gorgeous as you remember.

You listen to it all, intently. Clarke is like all your favorite stories rolled into one. You can read them over and over and over until you’ve memorized your favorite parts, but each time, you find something new to love.

 _Love_? Is that how you felt towards her? You’re not sure. You just know you’ve been staring at her lips the whole night.

By the 5th picture she shows you of her doing charity work in Asia, you physically can’t stand it anymore. You want to kiss her. No. You _have_ to kiss her.

You lean in…

...

...

But your lips meet cold air.

...

“I…have a boyfriend,” she reminds you quietly, not meeting your eyes.

“I don’t care.” You really, really, _really_ didn’t. The world could’ve been crumbling around you and you’re not sure if you’d even notice. All you hear is your heartbeat pounding against your ears. All you see is blue, blue, blue. All you smell is her perfume. It’s intoxicating, enchanting, inebriating.

“I do.” Her tone is firm.

“ _Clarke._ ” Your voice almost sounded pleading, but honestly you couldn’t give less of a damn.

“Lexa,” she warns.

You sigh, backing away. The world floods back into your senses. “So you love him, then?”

A beat.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Something in you snapped.

“Well _I_ love _you_!” You almost scream, getting up from the grass. It comes as a surprise for both of you. You hadn’t even realized it until you voiced it out loud, but it’s the truth. You love her. You are so madly in love with her. Perhaps you have been ever since you met her.

Silence. You could see her eyes welling up in the dark, and it’s killing you to see her cry, but you stand your ground.

“I’m sorry.” It’s quiet where you two were, but you could’ve sworn you heard the sound of your heart shattering into a million pieces, and it was deafening. You wonder if she heard it too. “I can’t.”

“Yes you can, you’re just choosing not to.” It’s harsh, you knew it. Rationally, you knew that this boyfriend of hers was probably a perfectly good guy **_~~but he’s not me~~_** , Clarke’s always been an excellent judge of character. Rationally, you knew she’s doing ‘ _the right thing’_ , and you’d come to respect her all the more for it **_~~but he’s not me~~_**. At that moment, though, you were not rational.

“I’m sorry,” she says again. It’s the last thing she said to you for the next year.

(You hate love)

(You don’t hate her)

(You could never hate her)

 You go out with a string of girls after that. Slept with some of them. Never blondes, though.

* * *

 

The next time Clarke calls you, funnily enough, you’re on a date. A 5th date. With someone you actually quite liked. You thought about ignoring the call, but you couldn’t bring yourself to press the red ‘end call’ button. She’s firmly set up shop in your heart and she refuses to go anywhere.

“Clarke?”

“Lexa, hi.” She sounded like she’s been crying, but you don’t pry. You haven’t spoken to her in a year. It’s probably not your place anymore.

“What’s up?” You ask nonchalantly like nothing ever happened.

“I’m in DC, can I…can I come over?”

Your heart was suddenly racing. You glance over to your date, and she smiles when she catches your eye. It’s a nice smile. You’ve grown to like it.

But it’s Clarke.

But she had a _boyfriend_.

 ** _But. It’s. Clarke_**.

You sigh, defeated. Let’s be real, you were never going to deny her anything.

By the time you’ve excused yourself from your date, citing a personal emergency, and arrived back at your apartment, she’s already waiting for you on the steps outside your home.

In another world, in a different universe, it could’ve been fantastically romantic. Clarke showing up at your door in the middle of the night, with a bottle of fine wine in her hands, proclaiming her love for you. Perhaps she’d compare it to oxygen or some other metaphor that would otherwise seem cheesy, but coming from her, it’s perfect. She wouldn't have been able to finish two sentences before you'd be kissing her. You’d both be too wired to sleep, so you'd wander the empty streets at night, hand in hand, pretend the airplanes above are stars in the sky, talk, kiss, drink, get positively drunk on each other.

But _no_ , you’re stuck in this one, and it sucks.

The first thing you notice was how puffy her eyes were. So she _was_ crying. You curse yourself for not getting home faster. The second thing you notice was the bottle of vodka in her hands.

“He left.” Clarke laughs bitterly. “He got a job in Australia and he left.” She takes a swig of the vodka. “Guess I chose wrong after all.”

You don’t know what to say.

You let her into your apartment. She cries on your shoulder.

You make her blueberry pancakes.

As you’re putting the dishes in your sink, she finds you in the kitchen and wraps her arms around your waist from behind. You get a waft of her perfume, or maybe it’s her shampoo. Either way, it’s _dizzying_. You also smell the alcohol she’s had.

“Thanks, for tonight.”

You turn around and she’s got this look in her eyes that kind of makes your heart melt like cold chocolate left outside on a sunny day.

She glances down at your lips and licks her own. It would’ve been so easy to kiss her then. She’d kiss you back. You know it. She knows it. The constant thudding in your ribcage knows it, too.

A year ago, in some random person’s backyard at that one lame party, you would’ve done it. You wouldn’t have cared that she’s drunk, or that she’s just broken up with her boyfriend of four years, or that it’s past midnight and you have a 9am class the next morning. You would’ve kissed her anyway.

But it’s not a year ago, it’s the present. Although parts of that old you is still there, the part that’d be more than willing to be her next mistake, the rational side of you wins over (you hate your rational side). You don’t want her to do anything she’d regret in the morning. You pull her arms away, and she moves to lean against the countertop, so you’re standing side by side.

“Why did you let me say yes to him?”

She doesn’t mention the day, or the guy. You both know exactly what and who she’s referring to.

You want to get angry, tell her that she could’ve just turned him down instead of waiting for you to object, but you don’t. She’s not your property. For all you know, she probably liked him more than she did you at the time, and you gave her no reason not to go out with him.

Anyway, none of that mattered now. To dwell on the past is to miss the present, and in the present, she is here, and so are you.

“I could’ve loved you, you know. It could’ve been you and me.”

You stare at your feet and study the patterns on your kitchen floor. She is right, of course. You could’ve made her happy. She **_would_** have made you happy. It could’ve been you and her. You want to tell her that it still can be, _but you don’t_. She is still reeling from her breakup. She is emotional and drunk.

So you put her to bed, and you say goodnight. There are so many other things you want to say.

Things like _‘When I am with you, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be, and when I’m not, I always want to be somewhere else._ ’

Things like ‘ _I’m sorry, I didn’t choose this. It just happened._ ’

Things like ‘ _I love you._ ’

(You sleep on the couch, because you don’t trust yourself to sleep in the same bed as her.)

* * *

 

The next morning, she’s still asleep when you leave for class, so you leave a note telling her to call or text you.

She does text, but it’s only to tell you thanks again and that she’s gone back to her campus.

You go back to being friends, sort of. You want more, but you know she needs time to heal. Every time you talk, you get the urge to just drop everything, get into your car, break every speed limit until you get to her door, and kiss her like the world will end if you don’t.

It’s six months later, and the world as you know it does end. You get the phone call at 3:14am in the morning.

Your heart sinks as you answer the phone.

_Parents. Accident. Didn’t make it._

All the words rush into your head like a tidal wave hitting the shore, destroying everything in its path.

There are only 26 letters in the English alphabet, yet it’s funny how certain combinations of them can invoke such a massive range of human emotion. Shock, anger, sadness, grief. Everything in between. You mostly just felt numb.

You are only 20 years old, and for the first time in your life, you are truly alone.

Clarke shows up at the funeral, and while there are many familiar faces that all want to help, you just want them to leave.

You need the comfort of the best friend you’ve ever had. You need the sunshine, because it is the coldest, darkest rainy day in your life, and it is **_pouring_**.

**Author's Note:**

> These two haunt me.


End file.
